he uttered a shout of warning. We were right at the mouth of the
mill-race. For the moment we forgot about Dutchy, and swam out for shore.
Before we realized it Dutchy was caught in the current, and was being
swept full tilt down the stream. My but wasn't he scared. I can see him
yet clinging for dear life to the plank, his face the color of ashes and
his eyes bulging out in terror. First he tried to make for the bank, but
the water was so swift that when the front end of the board struck land
the rear end swung around in a circle, carrying him on again, but backward
this time, before we could reach him. Two or three more times the plank
struck the bank and turned him around, while we raced along the high bank,
scrambling down to catch him every time he headed for shore, but each time
just missing him. Then he swung out past the Tiger's Tail into the open
river just above the rapids. Fortunately he was going along headforemost
this time, and Uncle Ed, who had just arrived, panting and breathless,
from running, shouted to him to keep his head and steer for a narrow
opening between two jutting boulders. I don't know whether Dutchy did any
steering or not, but the raft shot straight through the opening, and was
lost in a cloud of spray. In a moment he reappeared below the rapids,
paddling like mad for a neck of land on the Pennsylvania side of the
river.

Dutchy would never own up that he was afraid. He never told a lie under
other circumstances, but when it came to a question of courage he had the
habit of stretching facts to the very limit. Even in this case, he said
that he started out with the idea of shooting the rapids, and if we hadn't
flustered him so, he would not have bumped into the bank and turned about
so many times. Dutchy was a very glib talker. He nearly persuaded us that
it was all done intentionally, and his thrilling account of the wild dash
between the rocks and through the shower of spray stirred us up so that we
all had to try the trick too.